


The Pop Singer's Fear Of The Pollen Count

by Elsewhere



Category: The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 03:50:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsewhere/pseuds/Elsewhere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dee/Noel. Pegging. No plot. All the fault of several ridiculous late-night conversations about hideous alternatives to lube we would <i>not</i> want in our bottoms (example: Fairy Liquid! Although that would be an awesome brand name if it wasn't already copyrighted by spoilsports) and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NKOXPzDqM9Q">this video</a> about Dee's horrendous hayfever... you see where this is going. Nobody should read this. ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pop Singer's Fear Of The Pollen Count

**Author's Note:**

> There aren't enough apologies in the world for this, so I'm not even going to bother trying. In my defence, I'm not _actually_ being serious, but that doesn't excuse it. Crack!
> 
> Title from the Divine Comedy. Hannon, not Dante.

"Come on," he saying, with his mouth hot and wet against her skin. "Come on, come onnn..."

She elbows him hard in the ribs and tips the rest of her water down the sink, honking what feels like about half a gallon of snot into a crumpled tissue. "Fuck off." She punctuates that with the sharp tap of the glass upending on the draining board. "You're a selfish cunt sometimes. I'm _dying_."

"Yeah, and?" He nudges his hips forward again; she can feel the hardness straining behind the zip on his jeans, pressing against the small of her back. "Turns me on, colour-coordination. Your eyes go with your hair, all red like that." He's insistent as a puppy when he gets an idea in him, moving his hands all over her and leaning in over her shoulder trying to place a kiss somewhere, she's not sure where. It ends up falling on her raw nose and kind of skittering off to her cheek, her chin, her mouth.

"_Don't_ kiss me," she snaps, turning her face away because he's got his arms wrapped tight around her body and his hands wrapped tight around her wrists so she can't go storming off. "I can't fucking breathe."

"Okay, so I won't kiss you. But come _on_."

He drops one wrist, and his hand's slipping south now. Her jeans (his jeans? she's never sure any more) are too tight for him to squirm his way inside and he's too impatient to waste precious nanoseconds popping the buttons so he doesn't bother, he just slides his fingers between her legs and _presses_ against the denim until her breath sticks in her throat and re-emerges as quiet, acquiescent moan. She can feel him grinning, where his chin's tucked into the junction of her neck and shoulder, and can't decide whether to headbutt him in the nose and let him carry on or just let him carry on, because it's pretty good, actually, of course it's good, she just can't _breathe_ or _see_ because there's snot and tears streaming out her face and he wants sex _now_? Selfish fucker. Yeah, literally.

"I'll let you do me, if you want," he murmurs, chewing on her ear in that way he's got. An old girlfriend used to like it. He forgets sometimes. Not that he's no longer with her, just that different girls are made differently and some of them don't like slobber down their ear canal, but whatever.

"You'll _let_ me, will you?" she says, dryly, and he stops his chomping and starts to say something else, make a hasty apology, maybe, who knows, but she interrupts with a raised eyebrow and a quick jerk of her head in the direction of the bedroom and he's away like lightning, peeling off his t-shirt as he goes and chucking it down the hall somewhere. He's starting on his jeans when she loses sight of him through the door; when she comes through, only seconds later, he's wrenching the bunched-up fabric off his feet. His hair's sticking up all over the place with the static from his t-shirt and he looks a bit wild in the eyes as if it's been _forever_ since they last fucked when it's really only been about sixteen hours. It's impossible not to want to laugh when he's like this, even with the stuffy headache and the not being able to breathe and the feeling that, really, she'd rather be doing just about _anything_ else in the world right now than fucking, but at least it'll shut him up a bit for the afternoon so she can try a nap.

He's sitting on the bed, fully-naked, turning the strap-on over and over in his hands. He's always fidgety, even more so when he's seconds away from getting sex and almost bursting at the seams with impatience. "Come here," he says, and she sniffs back a massive throatful of snot and goes over to him, forcing herself into the mood, or trying to. It's easier when he starts kissing her, the stretch of skin just above her navel, shoving her t-shirt up so he can get to it. On an impulse, she hooks the hem of the shirt over his head, trapping him there, and laughs herself when she feels him laughing against her skin, the wet drag of his tongue and his fingertips pressing into her hips, fumbling blindly for the fastenings on her jeans. When he's found them it's only seconds before he's got her naked, too. He was never much of a one for the seductive, slow striptease; he regularly _shreds_ her clothes in his impatience to get them off, then spends the whole of the afterglow trying to fit pieces back together in a new, better way, putting buttons where they don't belong or have any function but look really really good.

The angle's weird, with her standing up - he's grumbling about neck-ache and tongue-cramp, so she shoves him back against the pillows and pins him down with her knees either side of his head, making sure she's on his hair so he can't get away and grinding down against his mouth, fucking herself on the point of his tongue. His hands are fluttering round her thighs like he can't make up his mind whether to pull her even closer and almost suffocate himself making her come, which he claims he really gets off on doing, or push her away and get to business with the dildo, which he _also_ claims he really gets off on doing - he's easy, really, she thinks, and she's glad, that suits her just fine, having a boyfriend whose appetite for sex can be tiresome but is at least always _interesting_...

She can't read his eyes, they're only barely open, so she leans back just a tiny bit, just enough to see his face better. His lips and chin and nose are shining wet and it almost makes her laugh, as she wipes her own dripping nose on the inside of her wrist.

"What's so funny?"

"You. You look all snotty."

"I...? Oh. That's fucking disgusting."

"Yeah? And you're the one wanting it when I've got a head full of hayfever, so shut up and make it good."

"_You_ make it good." He's still clutching his precious strap-on, the pervert, she can feel the harness under his sweaty fingers where they're resting at the top of her leg. It's a scarlet one, black elastic straps.

(They were drunk once, giggling like schoolgirls over a shitty Blaze novel they'd found on the bookshelf at someone's party, a friend of a friend neither of them knew. "Angry red member?" he read out loud, slotting the words carefully into his alcoholic gigglefit because, he explained later, he just thought they'd be fun to say. "Why's it angry? _How's_ it angry?" And then: "RARRGH!" as he leapt at her and artlessly, furiously dry-humped her until they'd laughed themselves to crying. Nothing sexy about it whatsoever, they just laughed and laughed, and kissed wine off each other's mouths. He was wearing red jeans, too. It was funny when they were drunk. Months later, when they slipped without realising it from a discussion about what to cook for tea into an odd, awkward conversation about role-reversals and sex fantasies, she knew right away what colour she was going out to buy. He didn't laugh this time, when she brought it home and gave him the bag. His eyes just went very, very big.)

She clambers off him and rolls onto her back to drag the straps up her legs and settle the smaller end into place. He likes this part of the process. He's never been able to articulate why. Something similar to the glazed look he gets when he's watching her masturbate. Filthy fucking voyeur. She smiles, though, gives a bit of a wriggle for him, turns it into a show, and through a prism of allergy-tears she can see his mouth hanging open hungrily. She feels like hell, she wouldn't want to fuck herself the state she's in just now, but he's never been normal in his urges - he's wrapping his lube-smeared fingers around the dildo as she's thinking this, like he's reading her mind. The shift of the smaller end inside her feels bigger and deeper than it really is. He moves his hand like he does when he's wanking - slow, hard, rubbing his thumb over the head every now and then like that's going to have any effect on a lump of latex. She vaguely wonders, as always, whether she should be worried he seems to have such a thing for cock, but it's not like he's looking at it or anything, his eyes are on hers and he's not looked away yet; he's hardly even blinking, as if he's afraid that something marvellous is going to happen in those split seconds and he'll miss out.

"Turn over," she says, "and hold onto the headboard. If I fuck you hard enough will you leave me alone and let me suffer in peace?"

He's laughing, breathless, scrambling to obey. "Promise."

"Good," she says, or _tries_ to say before she interrupts herself halfway through the word with an explosive sneeze that leaves twin stalactites of snot dangling from her nostrils.

He's still laughing. "Bless you," he says, and impatiently bucks back against her. She stops halfway to reaching for her t-shirt to wipe her nose and hand off, suddenly furious with him. He came in her face once. Just pulled out of her mouth and BAM, all over her cheeks and nose, clinging to her eyelashes, and in a wild rage she'd tried to bite his cock off. Without letting herself think too hard about what she's doing, now, she rams two slimy fingers into his arse. Petulant revenge, kind of. Laziness, kind of. Her shirt's too far away, the tube of lubricant's fallen off onto the carpet, she can't be bothered to retrieve it because that would involve moving, and he'll only whinge if she moves anyway. He tosses his hair and moans at the intrusion, like a silicone slapper in a bad porno, resting on his forearms, white-knuckled around the bars, demanding _more_, demanding _harder_, demanding _now_, so she blows her streaming nose into her hand and gives him what he's begging for.


End file.
